


a thin layer of skin (is all that holds it in)

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Death, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, Introspection, Quentin is the beast, This is the Worst Timeline, Timeline 23, Trick or Treat 2020, no happy ending, trick - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: The halls are full of ghosts.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	a thin layer of skin (is all that holds it in)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [facethestrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/facethestrange/gifts).



> Written for the Trick or Treat Exchange 2020 for facethestrange. I hope that you enjoy it! 
> 
> Title is from 'I'm all Bloody Inside' by Liam Lynch.

The halls are full of ghosts.

Quentin strides down the corridors, his footsteps echoing and reverberating off the cold stone. The colder months have truly set in; the trees have shed their leaves all at once and the entirety of Fillory is buried underneath a thick blanket of snow. Without the mantel of magic that surrounds him in a shimmering haze, Quentin would have been shivering in his thin shirt and vest. As it is, he barely notices.

The part of Quentin that was once Ember and is inextricable and irrevocably linked to Fillory- no matter how he might feel about it- knows that today is the shortest day of the year. A day of death and mourning, a day where the living huddle together and light fires to stave off the cold of those who have passed on, a day to laugh louder and speak more brightly and gather the remaining cheer to ward away the unquiet spirits. 

In previous years, perhaps there would have been a festival; blazing fires and mulled wine and Julia’s head heavy against his shoulder as they leant together and watched the magic of Fillory spring to life in front of them.

Quentin doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. Not joy or warmth or love, not fear or anxiety or anger.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that asshole,” Margo snaps. Her one good eye glares out at him from the ruin of her face.

“Margo,” Quentin greets congenially. “You’re a long way from Brakebills.”

Margo scowls at him, twisting her face into something dangerous for a moment, magic gathering around her.

Quentin laughs to himself. He might once have been afraid of Margo, of her brash confidence and her surprisingly delicate magic, but no more. Quentin isn’t afraid of anyone anymore. A true gift from a surprising source; if Martin Chatwin were not dead and his atoms scattered throughout the Multiverse, Quentin might thank him.

“Hey, try not to be more of a stereotypical maniacal overlord than usual, dude,” Josh says, hands clenched at his sides.

“Who are you again?” Quentin asks. There are many ghosts in Whitespire and there will be many more before the night is done. He can’t be expected to remember all of them.

Josh splutters as Quentin walks straight through him, ignoring the chill. He pauses at an intersection of corridors before deciding to indulge in one of his baser impulses and turns to his right. Toward the Council Chamber.

Whitespire is dark. Dark and dull and filled with the scent of rot and decay. The bodies of the High Council still lie mouldering in their seats where he left them, eyes dim and throats bloody.

There’s something beautiful in the death and destruction, and Quentin allows himself a moment of indulgence as he stares upon his work.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Eliot says beside him, taking a swig out of his flask as gestures expansively to the corner of the room where Tick Pickwick lies, hands outstretched and imploring, head a good three yards from his body. Eliot crouches next to Tick’s head and mimes picking it up. “Alas poor Yorick,” he declaims, as solemn as only the truly drunk can be. 

Quentin doesn’t look at him. Instead his eyes are drawn to the far side of the room. To where a throne once stood, its arms splattered and stained with blood. He had destroyed that chair, dissembled it splinter by splinter and watched as both it and its occupant fade into nothing more than mist.

He walks over.

“Quentin,” Julia breathes, looking up at him from where she’s sprawled on the ground, a burst of red at her chest. “Quentin- I don’t forgive you.”

Quentin steps over her prone body.

“I don’t care.”

The halls are full of ghosts. But they have no power over him. Not anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


End file.
